“You did.”
He started crying.
I had never seen him cry like that.
And I still loved him.
That was the awful part.
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I remembered him making soup when I was sick.
Waiting outside a job interview with flowers.
Staying awake beside me on the anniversary of my mother’s death.
Those things happened.
They weren’t imaginary.
But neither was this.
“I know you loved me sometimes,” I said. “That’s what makes it worse. You knew exactly who I was, and you still helped them try to change me.”
